


Lead Me Astray

by jeien



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Unintentional Seduction, Violinist!Yuuri
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-08-31 20:38:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8592664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeien/pseuds/jeien
Summary: This moment is when he breaks away from the routine of the past twelve years of his life: chasing the afterimages of Eros brought to life by this plain-faced, Asian violinist as desperately as a man seeking the woman who captured his heart and ran off with it.[AU where Yuuri is the violinist for 'On Love: Eros' and Viktor still finds himself intrigued.]





	1. Playing with Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The AU no one asked for but got anyway because I tried to pick out the notes on my own violin and failed. 
> 
> Unbeta'd so pardon the mistakes.
> 
> EDIT: I started this series before the amazing hot mess that was episode 10 so drunken Yuuri had not been in the picture AT ALL. That being said, I tried to edit it to somewhat accommodate the episode.

It was very rare for the ISU to change the itinerary of the Grand Prix banquet. Even some of the senior skaters had been caught off guard when the invitations were sent to their coaches; but apparently this particular season had showcased the world’s best and most memorable performances from both skating veterans and new up-and-comers alike so it was only natural that the dinner reflected the grand style and talent throughout the season. Viktor supposes he could agree with their sentiments. The entire competition felt like an endless train of praises and dumbstruck wonder from the judges, the announcers, the sports journalists—hell, people who didn’t even _care_ about figure skating had jumped onto the bandwagon. It wasn’t as if the exaltation was undeserved: the skill level of every performance had certainly been intense this season. Even while Viktor stands at the top, gold medal dangling around his neck for the sixth year in a row, he doesn’t know how long he could hold onto his string of absolute victories with all the win-starved skaters chasing at his heels.

 _Well, I can worry about that afterwards_ , Viktor tells himself. He knows he has to attend, regardless of what unnecessary elaborations they make to the dinner program. It comes with being the reigning champion of the rink. He figures he has at least the wine to look forward too. And also the chance to tease little Yuri Plisetsky.

Speaking of.

“Ah, there you are, my little Yurachka!” Viktor shouts as soon as he sees platinum blond hair.

Yuri bristles when he hears it. Next to him, Mila Babicheva covers her mouth, trying not to burst into laughter at the fluffy nickname, while Georgi Popovich is distracted from his disastrous love life long enough to politely cough the chuckle into his hand. Yuri’s voice, still in the middle of dropping yet has all the grit and gravel of a man’s, is all venom when he says, “Viktor, I swear to _God_ , if you call me that again—!”

“But it’s such a cute name!” Viktor interrupts, moving to ruffle Yuri’s hair with a wide, heart-shaped smile. “Anyway, congratulations on getting bronze in the senior division! Nice work!”

There’s a low grumble that sounded a lot like _Even though you forgot your fucking promise, asshole_ but Viktor chooses to gloss over it. It couldn’t have been too important.

“And congrats to you on your sixth gold, Viktor,” Mila says, fanning her face. It must’ve been hard work to try and contain herself. “Your last short program was really something. I didn’t think anyone could outdo Giacometti—guy practically did everything but have sex with the ice.”

“They wouldn’t have been able to televise that,” Georgi tells her.

She shrugs. “Pretty sure he came towards the end and they still televised _that_.”

“That’s just _sick_ , you old hag.”

Viktor laughs. “Well, the music certainly helped me set the mood. I’ve heard that particular variation of ‘On Love’ before, but I’ve never heard it like that. It was like Eros—it _was_ Eros. It drew me in, got me hooked. _Seduced_ me.”

Yuri’s face is starting to turn the same shade as Mila’s hair. “I’m not dealing with this anymore.”

“Aw, is Yuri Plisetsky, Grand Prix Final bronze medalist, embarrassed over some adult talk?” Mila asks, hooking her arm around his shoulders to prevent his escape. She rubs their cheeks together fondly while she says, “It’s alright, _malysh moya_ , you’re only a few years away!”     

“Get off me, dammit!”

From the corner of his eye, Yakov looks ready to have an aneurysm at any moment. Viktor takes it as his cue to discreetly slip away from the group. He dances around the journalists and ISU officials and other people of notoriety like the banquet hall was another ice rink. He also manages to snag a glass of champagne from a server as gracefully as he would land a quad—and just barely stops himself from a full-on collision with Christophe Giacometti and Jean-Jacques Leroy.

“Ah, and here he is,” Jean-Jacques says. “The man of the hour! I figured you’d be getting yelled at with the rest of them.”

Viktor throws a backwards glance; Yakov was really giving it to them. He takes a sip of champagne, pointedly turning away before he made direct eye contact. “I already filled my quota for today. Honestly, I just came for the drinks.”

“Don’t think about bailing on us just yet,” Christophe says with a laugh. “I heard they’re going to do a live performance tonight featuring stand-out songs from the competition.”

“Well, I know my short program theme is going to be on the roster,” Jean-Jacques says, striking his signature pose with a strained smirk. Poor man must probably be trying hard not to let the disappointment of sixth place get to him. “I mean, how could it not? But anyway, I'm sure we already know what’s _not_ going to be performed considering all the minors around.”

“You’ll have to be more specific, J.J.,” Viktor says. “I mean, my muscle suit routine for the gala had mixed reviews, so to speak.”

“Maybe that too. Actually, I’m surprised the ISU even approved it! I mean you basically stripped down to your briefs—and while I give you several brownie points for being ballsy as hell, I’m sure it wasn’t worth nearly getting frostbite.” Jean-Jacques ignores Viktor’s _But you were surprised nonetheless, right?_ and circles back to the original topic, “But no, I meant this one’s infamous seventies-porn-song that practically traumatized everyone. I saw the online clips from backstage during Cup of China and that Chinese skater looked like he was going to faint!”

Christophe opens his mouth and Viktor can already see the playful complaints bubbling from his throat. He doesn’t get so much as a huff out when the lights dim around the banquet hall; only the four overhead spotlights, focused on the stage, had remained. Viktor hadn’t noticed the people who had suddenly filled up the chairs, instruments in their hands or lap. He hadn’t noticed the dark-haired, plain-faced Asian violinist standing in front of his chair while the guitarist beside him plays an introductory rasgueado. He hadn’t noticed the violinist’s shaky exhale, the slight tremble of his hands as he tucked his instrument snug beneath his chin.

But Viktor had noticed the sharp intake of breath right as he plays two snappy up-bows and the long, downward drag of ‘On Love: Eros.’

The transformation is instantaneous: the violinist becomes as supple as the wind, blowing through the pretend town in Viktor’s mental story. His body sways with each push and pull of the bow—leans in when the vibrato fuels his temptations and, before anyone can catch him, leans back out with more upstrokes and slides to make his hasty escape. Even as the violin softens to a barely audible sustained note, the accordion and clarinet continue with the chase; they play against one another as the young man continues to dance around them in a vague mimicry of a skating step sequence. The short duet comes to an end when the key changes into something darker, more sinister: the violin returns with harsh strokes to interrupt their farce of a duel for affection. It was then that his eyes, half-lidded and dark brown pupils full of unspoken desire, find Viktor’s.

And it was then, in the heat of the song as the guitar strummed, the violinist smiles at him like the seductress of his song’s story. _Come and get me_. The violinist tears his gaze away to focus on his reentry into the song, twining his deliciously long vibratos within the quick plucks of the guitar like a beast circling their prey. Viktor recognizes the challenge.

The key changes back to the original one; the accordion and clarinet return, but this time the violin dances in the melody with them. The young man’s fingers never cease their calculated steps against the fingerboard as the dulcet shrills continue to lure the tones of the other instruments away—until the violinist takes center stage for the last few bars. The lines of his body are full of fire: fierce, blazing bow strokes juxtaposed with elegant wisps of his arm extensions. He goes further and further into the frenzied storm of passion he made and, in the end, breaks away from it in a quick scale downwards, leaving one last siren call in the form of an elongated C-sharp before the seduction ends. Viktor’s mental temptress is gone; but the traces of her remain in the young man on the stage—cheeks blooming pink, taking shallow breaths, eyes glazed over.

His eyes widen. Viktor remembers that particular expression, on a night exactly one year ago.

He sees the violinist lean forward, taking a short bow, before skittering off-stage with his instrument in his hands. _Come and get me_ ; and that’s when Viktor made up his mind. He misses the not-so-discreet _I can’t believe this!_ from Jean-Jacques and Christophe’s laughter  as the first notes of ‘Intoxicated’ played; instead, he uses the time to slip away into the crowd, determined to take up the gauntlet that had been thrown down during the performance.

Viktor winds up in a crisp white hallway, gorgeously adorned with a long plush rug and some artisanal vases dotting the sides every dozen feet. _Where did you go?_ he asks himself. The adrenaline he feels from this chase is electrifying—more so than the pounding rhythm of his heart on the ice when he lands a quad, nails a perfect routine, wins gold once more. This moment is when he breaks away from the routine of the past twelve years of his life: chasing the afterimages of Eros brought to life by this plain-faced, Asian violinist as desperately as a man seeking the woman who captured his heart and ran off with it.

He hears voices around the corner; he peeks just enough to see Celestino Cialdini and Phichit Chulanont, who has his arms around the violinist from the stage.

“That was amazing!” Phichit shouts, excitement radiating from his limbs. The young man in his arms nearly falls over from all the shaking and swaying. “I didn’t know you could play an instrument!”

“I did before, when I was really little,” the young man says. “But then I had decided to take up ballet and you know the rest from there.”

“You know, we were worried about you,” Celestino says; the two of them stop to look at him. “You’re more emotionally sensitive than most people I’ve worked with, so we were all afraid of how you’d take the news. And while we knew sending you back to Japan was the best choice for your recovery, there was still so much we wanted to do for you. We wanted to make sure you were okay—because you’re one of our own, you know?” _He used to be under Celestino?_ Viktor wracks his brain for more information. _Didn’t one of Celestino’s make it to the Grand Prix Finals last season?_ It definitely hadn’t been Phichit Chulanont. He sees Celestino take a deep breath and break out into his own grin. “Even if you can’t skate anymore, you’ll always be one of my boys. And seeing you up there, with that same love that you had for the ice, made me realize that you’re also a lot stronger than most people I’ve worked with. I’m really proud of you, Yuuri.” 

The violinist’s eyes crinkle into little crescent moons when he smiles. “Thank you, coach.”

_Yuuri?_

Viktor vaguely remembers the suggestion of a commemorative photo, a crestfallen face he can’t exactly remember that turned and walked away without a word. Celestino had been there, calling out for—

“Yuuri, I’m proud of you too, you know!” Phichit says. “I didn’t know you even had it in you to be sexy. And right in front of Viktor, no less!”

Yuuri sputters at that. The blush returns on his cheeks; and somehow, he finds it cute. “Viktor?! Viktor’s here?!”

“What, you didn’t see him? You’re not wearing your glasses, but I thought you had contacts. I think you looked right at him at one point.”

“I don’t wear them when I’m onstage because I get nervous when I can clearly see the crowd!” Yuuri turns red from his neck to his ears. He brings his hands up to cover his face, managing to trap Phichit’s arm in the process. “Of all people, why did it have to be Viktor Nikiforov? I’m so embarrassed; he probably thinks I’m an idiot.”

 _Oh, you couldn’t be any more wrong_ , Viktor thinks. If only Yuuri knew what he’d done: how that stare disarmed his defenses, how his smile pierced through his very being, how he left waves of desire rolling beneath his skin. Even now, as he covers himself with an almost virginal embarrassment, Yuuri continues to allure Viktor with a tempting sweetness. This Yuuri and the other Yuuri on stage are of one body and Viktor craves nothing more than to surround himself with that dangerous combination.

Celestino’s voice snaps him away from his thoughts. “I’m sure he doesn’t think that. There’s no doubt that you’ve left quite the favorable impression on everyone, Viktor included.” It seems to calm Yuuri down enough for him to fan out his fingers enough to look at them. “Now, don’t you have to go back with your group?”

“Oh, um, I’m actually not part of that group,” Yuuri says quietly. His hands fall from his face and Phichit finally pulls away, dramatically waving his arm around in mock-pain. Yuuri playfully shoves him aside. “I’m just sort of here for that one song. I was the one who played in the recording Viktor used, so the committee in charge of the party said it’d be more authentic if they got me to do the performance. So I was just planning on going back to my hotel room upstairs.”

“Ours is upstairs, too!” Phichit exclaims. “What room number? We’ll visit you once we’re done with the dinner!”

“1005.”

“Great! See you later, Yuuri! I’ll take loads of pictures to show you!”

Panic sets in for the first time in years. Viktor pulls his head back from around the corner and looks around, listening as a pair of footfalls grew louder. He spots a bathroom ten paces away and wastes no time rushing inside. Inhale. The footfalls pass by the door and soon fade. Slow exhale.

Viktor goes to the sinks to check himself in the mirror. His pupils were blown wide, a dusting of pink across his cheeks, a bead of sweat trailing down his neck. He doesn’t recall ever looking like this before. It’s almost laughable. Viktor Nikiforov, the skating world’s most eligible bachelor and King of the Ice, swept away by a passing summer night breeze named Yuuri.

And he finally remembers him in full: Yuuri Katsuki. Easily overlooked, came in dead last during the previous Grand Prix Finals, had the audacity to get drunk off his ass at the Grand Prix banquet, and danced with almost every competitor who mattered, including him. And after that crazy, wonderful night full of pole dancing and pseudo-pasa dobles, he dropped off the face of the skating world for reasons Viktor didn’t think to follow up on. That Yuuri Katsuki. The hazy, crestfallen face became clear. He remembers Yuuri’s eyes after the GPF results—how the burden of failure pushed the depths of the dark brown color to almost resemble a black abyss. Celestino had said the young man couldn’t skate anymore. Had Yuuri quit? Or did something happen to make him quit? _I suppose it doesn’t matter now_ ; he turns on the faucet and lets the water run into his cupped hands. He quickly washes his face and looks into the mirror again.

Room 1005.

Viktor practices his best flirty look on his reflection before he leaves the bathroom and enters the closest elevator away from the banquet hall.

 _Wait for me, Yuuri_ , he thinks as he pushes the button for the tenth floor, _I’ll turn the tables on you yet_.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _malysh moya_ = my baby (or at least it's supposed to be)
> 
> Yuri doesn't call Viktor by his formal name (name + patronym) because he's a little shit and doesn't respect anyone lmao. And also, if you managed to catch the little reference with Viktor's muscle suit routine, I hope it made you laugh a little. If not, then I highly recommend you watch [this video of Evgeni Plushenko](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XnJ_fsFUlFU) because, hey, if this is the man Viktor's based off of, then it's imperative that Viktor skate this routine somehow. (To me, it will always be The Legend.) 
> 
> EDIT: As I said, I wrote/posted this chapter prior to episode 10, so as my compromise... the drunken shenanigans happened, but Viktor doesn't recognize Yuuri right away when bab is on stage. I mean, dude only met him for two hours and then not see him for like a year. 
> 
> EDIT 2: Minor edit because, in hindsight, I seriously doubt Viktor would do that muscle suit routine in an actual competition. And now that we know the galas have more free reign without a judging panel........ Also the final placements of the skaters is different now: 1st goes to Viktor, 2nd to Chris, 3rd to Yurio, 4th to Otabek, 5th to Phichit and 6th to JJ because he still bombed his programs;;; (and I didn't want my sweet cinnamon apple have guilt for potentially letting down his entire country;;) 
> 
> Here's to hoping I have enough steam for another chapter. If you liked this one, leave a comment or a kudo. Or even hit me up on [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/jeienb) or [tumblr](http://hadesdancehall.tumblr.com) to scream at/with me over these dudes.


	2. Treading on Thin Ice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW IT'S BEEN THREE WEEKS SINCE I FIRST POSTED THIS WHAT HAPPENED? (Me trying to write smut that didn't even show up this chapter that's what.) Yeah. I had originally planned to make this a two-chapter story, but then I got the wild idea... for a third chapter... That is where the sexy times will be, I guess. (I am suffering trying to write it, but I'm making headway.) 
> 
> ANYWAY, in light of episode 10 (which was glorious btw. A+ Kubo-san & Yamamoto-san), I edited the first chapter to compromise the events of the last GP banquet and... ahaha...

His knee aches often.

Not all his accommodations provide him with a small fridge to keep the freezable compress he normally uses, so he’s learned to keep some pain relief patches with him when he travels. _I should buy more when I get home_ , Yuuri thinks, fishing out a packet of two from his bag after he changed out of his suit. His flight back to Japan is in three days—and as much as he loves the prospect of spending time with Phichit and Mr. Celestino after a year, he wishes it was sooner. What is he even going to do for three days, stuck in a foreign country with nothing but skating surrounding him? The other competitors are also going to be lingering for another day or so to ride out the waves of media coverage and no doubt a sports journalist recognized who he was during his performance, probably dying for an inside scoop on life after his forced retirement.

Yuuri peels the patches off their plastic backing. To think that he missed out on an entire season already. To think that he could have been in the banquet hall with the rest of them tonight. He pulls back the leg of his sweatpants and smoothes out the patches over his knee, sucking in a sharp breath as they sting against his skin.

It almost feels like the ice.

He immediately regrets making the comparison.

_I should’ve learned my lesson. I knew something was wrong with it after the Grand Prix Finals. Even if I had lost the Japanese Nationals, at least I could_ _’ve had a chance to fix it. I shouldn’t have tried to overcompensate for coming in last at Sochi. What was I trying to prove anyway? I shouldn’t have tried to jump. Why couldn’t I have landed on my back? Why did it have to be that same knee? Why was I such an idiot? Why—?_

He falls back against the bed, legs still dangling over the edge. The injury had happened, the surgery had happened, the physiotherapy had happened. Then, finally, the pièce de résistance: even with a proper recovery, his knee won’t be able to function the same way it did before, much less handle the strains of figure skating. Yuuri doesn’t really remember what had happened after the doctor told him the news. He doesn’t think he wants to. All he knows is that he had been the skater with the biggest glass heart—and it had shattered then and there, with the weight of not being able to skate for the rest of his life grinding the shards into fine dust before he could even get a chance to salvage any pieces. The news had destroyed him, leaving him half dead in a body that barely knew what to do without blades beneath his feet.

Things had gotten to the point where they were even starting to affect Phichit’s performance. He had known that Phichit was taking the news just as hard: skating was what brought them together in the first place. They had dreams of competing against each other in international tournaments, maybe even standing on the podium together. Skating had been the foundation of their friendship. But Yuuri didn’t want to ruin his best friend’s chances just because his own career was over. So after he finished college, he brought up the idea to go back to Japan.

_What time is it over there?_ Yuuri reaches for his phone and checks his lock screen. It should be near closing time. Maybe he’ll call. Yuuri owes his family that much, at the very least. They had been—and continue to be—his biggest supporters. Even before he returned to Hasetsu, they had motivated him through the grueling study hours and exam periods. They had scraped up enough to help pay off his fifth year in Detroit, encouraging him that _Yuuri, you_ _’re not a failure just because you need an extra year to finish your degree_. They had received him warmly when he finally _did_ come home from with his bachelor’s in tow: lots of hugs, a long soak in the hot springs, and plenty of his favorite katsudon. They had gone with him to his doctor’s appointments, listened to him when he was frustrated with his injury, let him grieve over his losses of both his dog and his passion—swept up the dust of his heart and did their best to help him make it new. They had sat with him as he thought about the future. They had sat with him as he thought about the past: about a life before skating. A life before ballet, even. And that was when he had found a small beam of light in the abyss.

They were surprised he had wanted to take up the violin more than a decade later. But they had never been the type to deny Yuuri, considering he was never the type to ask for anything in the first place. They had paid for his lessons—and just like with his skating, Yuuri spent every free moment he could get his hands on practicing fingerings, bowings, scales, rhythms, anything he could get his hands on. Sure, they had to buy padding to soundproof his room so no one would complain about him practicing well into the night, but Yuuri had started to bounce back. He finally had seen a glimpse of a life without the ice and he will always be grateful to them.

His mother is the one who answers the phone. “Hello! I thought you wouldn’t call for a while, since you already did when you landed. How was it?”

“Hi, Mom,” he greets with a tired smile. Just three more days. Three more days until he can take a soak in the hot springs, eat some katsudon, and sleep the shame away. “It was good. I saw Phichit and Mr. Celestino again—they told me I was great.” 

“That’s wonderful! You always said such nice things about those two. I’m glad you can catch up with them.” He hears a faint uproar in the background. The patrons are probably watching the last leg of a soccer game. “Ah, don’t mind that; the team lost another goal. Anyway, Yuuri, is your knee doing okay? I hear the weather’s a little on the cold side over in Barcelona and I remember you telling me you had to be on your feet when you played today.”

“It’s the normal pain, but I put the patches on. I think it’ll be okay. I’ll go out tomorrow and get a compress just in case.”

“Alright. Make sure you take it easy, Yuuri. Mom’s orders.”

“Yes, I know.” A knock on the door causes him to jolt out of the easy atmosphere. Did they decide to leave the party early? “Hey, Mom, I need to go. Phichit and Mr. Celestino said they’d visit me after the party and I think they’re here.”

“Oh, say hello for me! I won’t keep them waiting. Any messages you want me to pass along to your father and sister?”

“No, not right now,” Yuuri answers as he pushes himself up from bed. “Just tell them the usual.”

“Okay. Have fun with your friends, dear. And don’t stay up too late!”

“I won’t, Mom. Goodnight.” He puts his phone on top of the nightstand and limps towards the door. A quick flick of his wrist and the lock was undone. “That was fast. Is the party already over—?”

Yuuri’s words die in his throat when he sees someone who’s definitely not his best friend of about six years: the tall, taut body of a Renaissance statue; his snow-kissed skin as smooth as marble; the silver hair that half-curtains hooded eyes as blue as the ice, the sea, the sky, and possibly life itself; and those lips that curled into a devilish smile. He wonders whether he woke up from a dream and if he’s actually in Hasetsu, surrounded by the dozens of posters hung up on every free corner of his bedroom. Reality all but sucker punches him when the man in front of him moves from his contrapposto pose against the doorframe and leans down until his face is a hair’s breadth away.

“Here you are, _Yuuri_ ,” he says and—oh, _fuck_ —does Yuuri die a little inside when that velvet voice draws out his name.

“V-V-V-V…!” Yuuri’s tongue catches; it feels like committing some form of cosmic sacrilege to speak his name. He tries to jerk away, but Yuuri realizes too late that he shifted his weight back against his bad knee— _shit, shit, shit, shit!_ The sharp pain jolts up his leg, up his back, and Yuuri’s body buckles.

Viktor’s hand shoots out to catch him, other arm wrapping around his waist, and it nearly catches both of them off-balance. Even though he managed to shed most of the stress-eating weight post-physiotherapy, Yuuri still felt at least ten pounds heavier than when he skated competitively; having Viktor Nikiforov of all people struggle to right the both of them makes him wish that he had just fallen on his ass like the pathetic man he is.

“So it was your knee,” Viktor says. The grip around his waist didn’t falter. Yuuri wants to think that he feels a light squeeze of concern, but it could just be his imagination riding the high of having his skating idol and teenage fantasy holding onto him. “Sorry if I startled you. I just wanted to see if I could get a cute reaction. I didn’t think it was a leg injury you had, with how you were moving around onstage earlier.” 

“I—wait—uh—” His mind is spinning out of control and it’s almost like he’s trying to do a half-Biellmann for the first time again. He has too many questions vying to be the first one asked. _How do you know my name? How did you get my room number? How do you know that I had an injury? What do you mean you wanted a cute reaction? Why is this happening to me?_ His confused hurricane of thoughts settles down enough to stutter out, “What are you doing here?”

“Let’s get you into a more comfortable position first.” And then Viktor actually picks him up. Viktor’s arms support Yuuri’s upper back and under his knees and he yelps because _the_ Viktor Nikiforov, King of the Ice and Yuuri-proclaimed Russian Adonis, is carrying him like a princess or a bride or however else you want to compare it to but _holy shit_. Viktor lays him onto the mattress like Yuuri was a bolt of silk, treasured and revered; he dips his head down until they were nose to nose and, with the same husky voice he uses to make the media dance at the point of a finger, asks, “Does this answer your question?”

Yuuri’s mental hurricane falls silent to give its unanimous opinion: _NO!_

A squeak replaces words when Viktor impatiently closes more of the distance between them; Yuuri can practically taste the champagne he had drunk earlier in the evening. The faint aroma of Viktor’s cologne wraps around him and settles like a thick fog that makes his voice hitch trying to stutter, “N-Not really.”

“I was quite taken with your performance earlier,” Viktor tells him. Yuuri feels a hand running up his side to cup his face. “You surprised me more than I ever could have imagined—and I’m sure you know, but I try to make a living out of surprising people.”

_I know_ , he almost says, but his throat his kind enough to keep the words from tumbling out his mouth. It was one of Viktor’s staples: that one element of surprise in every routine since he took the skating world by storm was as inherent in the man as his talent. Even now, off the ice with the two of them pressed together in Yuuri’s hotel room, Viktor continues to shock and awe and steal Yuuri’s breath away.

“The music of your body was hypnotic. _Captivating_. You were Eros made real: a living, breathing embodiment of it. I couldn’t look away,” Viktor says, rumbling low voice shifting into airy hushed whispers. “If you had done that on the ice, you could have gone to the podium last year.”

Yuuri’s eyes widened. He needed to look away—anywhere but those shockingly blue eyes that seemed to have a gravity of their own. _How does he know?_ Yuuri had never considered himself to be enough of a competitor to have garnered Viktor’s attention. Compared to some of the other skating veterans like Chris or Jean-Jacques, Yuuri might as well have been an unimpressive asteroid floating aimlessly amongst brilliantly radiant stars. In fact, Yuuri’s almost certain that he had been the least impressionable person during the last international skating season.

(He has a twisted sense of pride over being nondescript; it makes his failings a little easier to cope with.)

_Did Viktor watch a replay of the entire men’s singles for last year’s Grand Prix Final?_ Yuuri turns his head to the side, squeezing his eyes shut. The thought alone of Viktor seeing his abysmal performance makes him wish the mattress would swallow him whole—get him out of his awkward situation of being pinned down by his childhood idol, who’s somehow maybe trying get into his pants while critiquing his former skating performance simultaneously.

He feels Viktor nose his craned neck, exposed as he tried to look away from that compelling gaze, waiting for some sort of reply.

“I couldn’t,” Yuuri chokes out, voice cracking. Viktor’s lips trail up the taut muscle. He lets out a shuddering moan and forces himself to say, “I’m no good at pretending to be someone other than myself on the ice.”

Yuuri gets a small, sharp bite at the juncture between his neck and his jaw—he gasps, a high-pitched sound foreign to his own ears. Viktor smiles against his skin. “But you can pretend on a stage? What’s the difference?”

“Does it even matter?” Yuuri asks sharply, pushing Viktor away. Viktor’s teasing smile drops as he pulls back, sitting on his knees in a weird, Western _seiza_. Yuuri briefly winces at his sudden aggressiveness. It came out harsher than he had intended, but sometimes he just can’t help it. Especially when it comes to such a sore subject like this. “I can’t skate anymore. I can’t even skate around the rink once or twice without my knee hurting.” He sits up, leaning back against his hands. He still doesn’t meet Viktor’s gaze, but he can feel the pointed stare. “I don’t even know how I managed to pull _that_ off earlier. The whole Eros thing. It was probably just a fluke. Disappointing, I know. I guess it’s the only thing I’m constantly good at.”

Silence settles between them. Yuuri was beginning to regret ever opening his mouth. Why does he have to subconsciously channel Mari when he feels cornered like this? And why does he think that someone like Viktor would ever care about his problems? 

“You know, Yuuri, I think I’m starting to understand.”

“Huh?”

“The difference,” Viktor says like it’s supposed to clear up the clouds hovering over the two of them. “You grew into the sport, made many friends and rivals, chased grander aspirations for a longer period of time. You were surrounded by people who could easily spot your faults and your shortcomings. They can’t do that now. They’re trained in figure skating, not music. You basically created a margin of error for yourself, Yuuri. You can afford to make mistakes without the dread of being called out on it—because they can’t tell the difference. To everyone else, it’s all the same pretty tune you play.”

Yuuri takes the time to process all this: from Viktor Nikiforov showing up from fucking nowhere to Viktor Nikiforov implying that the original intent of this visit was basically a hook-up to Viktor Nikiforov psychoanalyzing him and his not-so-midlife crisis. Years’ worth of inarticulate shame and frustration, completely unraveled by a stranger in mere minutes. He wonders how he musters up the energy to say, “Oh.”

“This you and the you from earlier are the same person. It’s just a different side of you. You always had that bit of confidence, _pryanichek_. I’m just not sure why you’d think to hide or deny it.” He watches Viktor pull away his gaze, looking down. It was an expression Yuuri had never seen on him before. It almost felt wrong to see Viktor so vulnerable, so ashamed. “Perhaps it was because of people like me?”

“Th-That’s not true!” Yuuri had been Japan’s ace at one point—the best male singles skater his humble home country had to offer. He already had his chance to shine at the national level; hell, it was more than he ever could have expected, having chosen figure skating on a whim. If his light didn’t cut through when he transitioned into the international circuit, then he was probably still lacking as a skater. Maybe it had also been a case of bad timing: competing in the same season as the big name athletes. But never in all his years on the ice would Yuuri ever think that Viktor had taken any of his chances away. “It’s not… I was always like that. The shy, awkward kid with no friends.” Yuuri squeezes his eyes shut again. He never thought he would have to say cheesy things like this in front of someone else. “If anyone did anything to change that shy, awkward kid with no friends, it was _you_. I got confidence from you. I got inspiration from you. I got strength and drive and passion from you. You _gave_ skating to me. So, uh. If there was any ruined confidence, it was probably because I didn’t have what it took to stand by you on the ice.”

They’re going in circles with this conversation. He doesn’t know if the answer he gave is the right one. (Honestly, Yuuri thinks he had been better off omitting the last bit.) But warm hands grasp his own like they were as fragile as his glass heart—and when Yuuri has the nerve to force one eye half-open, he sees Viktor with the same look during a competition: focused, determined, wanting.

“Then let me give all those things to you again,” Viktor says, voice dipping dangerously low. “I want to show you what I see. Will you let me?”

After tonight, they will separate into their different paths. The chances of seeing each other again—and the chances of anything meaningful coming out of this fling-turned-therapy-session—are like a fleck of stardust floating in the galaxy.

_Inhale_.

What does he have left to lose?

_Exhale_.

“Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaa sorry if that chapter was a little... weird with the pacing. I tried really hard. Actually, the whole conversation with Yuuri's margin of error wasn't even supposed to happen. They were supposed to get it on but... Well, that whole scene added like 1000 words and now here we are. 
> 
> ~~THE NEXT CHAPTER WILL BE THE LAST I SWEAR. AND I'M TRYING MY BEST NOT TO MAKE YOU GUYS WAIT LIKE ANOTHER MONTH FOR IT. (I... signed up for two fandom Secret Santa things plus I want to make my coworkers a Christmas card so... let's see how that promise holds up?)~~ (EDIT: Well... that certainly fell through;;;; ) 
> 
> Please continue to cheer me on in this endeavor! And thank you again for reading! If you have the time, please leave a comment! (Or even drop by and say hi on [twitter](https://twitter.com/jeienb) and [tumblr](http://hadesdancehall.tumblr.com/)!)


	3. Riptides Colliding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELCOME TO THE NEW YEAR, EVERYONE. I kept you waiting for a month because the holiday season is hectic for all of us and... Well, I knew I said that this chapter was going to be it, but... It just got way too long, so I had to split it again. FORGIVE ME FOR MAKING YOU GUYS WAIT AGAIN. 
> 
> I had started this series post-episode-7 and now we've finally finished airing! So I went back and made some edits to the first two chapters to make it somewhat more compliant to how the tournament setting works (as well as fix up J.J.'s personality because, hooooo boy, I had made him too tame.) Also so some callbacks can work a little better.

If he tries hard enough, he can pretend: that he was back in Detroit, that he’s having breakfast with Phichit and Celestino, that they’re taking their much needed day-after break before training for Nationals and Four Continents and—

“Yuuri,” Phichit calls, the teasing lilt in his voice tethering him back to reality. “You already stood me up last night; don’t do the same with your hot chocolate.”

“You could’ve just told me it’s going to get cold like a normal person,” Yuuri says, rolling his eyes. “And besides, I already said I was sorry. I just got too anxious about something and wanted to take some time to myself.”

(Which hadn’t been entirely untrue—although the anxiety came from trying to tell Phichit he hadn’t been feeling too great while, on the other side of the door, he had Viktor Nikiforov’s slender fingers working his cock to completion.)

Celestino frowns. “We’ve told you that you shouldn’t be by yourself when you feel your anxiety kick in.”

“I know,” Yuuri says. He takes a scalding sip of hot chocolate and lets the guilt sear his tongue before it settles down in his stomach with the drink. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Phichit says quickly—because he _knows_ how his best friend works and he _knows_ that Yuuri is beating himself up for it harder than anyone reasonably expects him to. “You get to make it up to me by spending the next two days with us! That’s when your flight is, right? Two days from now?” He sees Yuuri nod. “Same with us! So, Ciao Ciao and I’ll make sure you’re not alone! We’re gonna see all the sights, eat all the food, and take all of the selfies like you won’t even _believe_!”

Boy’s day out. Just like back then.

Except it’s really hard to keep himself detached from his current circumstances—the injury, the retirement, the horrible denial of it all—when Viktor’s phantom touches continue to ebb and flow around his skin. Even with the licks of winter wind that whip around their faces as he and Phichit drink in Barcelona’s rich city streets, Yuuri’s body is as warm as it had been the night prior, when heat was all he could feel: heat from the methyl salicylate, from the embarrassment, from sitting in Viktor’s lap with his bare back flush against Viktor’s bare chest. The fabric of Yuuri’s shirt suddenly becomes too rough and he has to bite down every indecent noise threatening to spill from his mouth when it starts to rub against his nipples the same way calloused fingers did. ( _“Oh? You’ve never played with yourself up here? It’s cute how sensitive they are, getting so hard from just a little attention.”_ ) Yuuri buries the words—God, he can still feel the warm breath against the shell of his ear—and focuses on the story Phichit was telling him about the wild things that had happened during the banquet.

“Apparently, this wasn’t the first time Giacometti brought the pole to a banquet, but of course J.J. had to make it a challenge on who could do it the best. Newsflash: it wasn’t him. He couldn’t even pull himself up two inches from the floor.” Phichit loops their arms together, quickly making sure he hasn’t caused Yuuri to put any undue pressure on his bad knee, and gives an exaggeratedly devious wink. “Lisa taught us better, right?”

He thinks of a blonde pole instructor back in her studio in Redford Charter less than half an hour away from campus. “She’d slaughter us if we couldn’t do that much.”

“And then she’d somehow make our skeletons do doughnuts until our heads hurt,” Phichit says. Yuuri can’t help but laugh. He can easily image Lisa dragging someone from the grave to drill them with inversions and climbs out of spite. Phichit’s mouth splits into a wide grin. “Now there’s the face I love! We need to take a picture to immortalize it!”

Phichit’s phone is out before he knows it—the time it takes for Phichit to retrieve his phone and raise it to selfie-position has gotten significantly faster; Yuuri doesn’t know how the man does it—and the arm once looped around his own shoots out to wrap around his waist. Yuuri fights down a shiver and the image of a pale hand snaking down his waist, his hips, lower, _lower_ —

The phone goes off with its default shutter noise.

“Oh, Yuuri, you look so cute!” Phichit cries out. Yuuri cranes his neck to take a peek at the photo. His eyes were pushed into crescent-moon shapes by his all-teeth smile—Phichit’s joy is contagious to everyone, after all. It’s the happiest he’s looked in years. Yuuri inwardly sighs in relief. How embarrassing would it have been to have accidentally made a bedroom face just because he can’t get last night out of his mind? Next to him, his best friend is practically vibrating from excitement. “Yuuri, Yuuri, you _have_ to let me post this! Pretty please, I swear you don’t look silly or stupid or anything; you look absolutely great and—!”

“Sure, you can post it,” he says.

Phichit nearly breaks the sound barrier by how high he squeals. “Yuuri! You’ve always put up such a fight when it comes to your picture! Are you sure? Because you know I was just teasing you earlier at breakfast about making it up to me.”

( _“You always had that bit of confidence,_ _pryanichek.”_ )

Yuuri smiles.

“I like how it turned out.”

(By the end of the day, Yuuri finds that he likes how a lot of the pictures they took together turned out. Phichit helps him set up an Instagram account— _“How did I let you live five years under the same roof without making you get one? Oh, and let me follow you!”_ —on the way back to his hotel room after they buy a compress for his knee. He and Phichit spent the evening on his laptop: voice chatting with his sister, watching videos on the internet, reminiscing about college. Celestino came to pick Phichit up three hours later because they have an early day with some sponsors and Phichit can’t afford to be late.

Yuuri has all of five minutes to himself someone was knocking at the door. He remembers the heady whispers— _“Oh, the things I’d do to you, sakharok, but not now. Tonight, we’ll take it easy.”_ —full of words that vaguely promise more to come. He holds onto the small hope that the person on the other side of the door will be Viktor.

The chances of them meeting again after last night had been a fleck of stardust floating in the galaxy, a drop of water within the vast expanse of the ocean. But Viktor is there, tender smile and gentle hands and all.

They spend the rest of the night making good on those vague promises for more.)

* * *

Viktor sees the pictures on his feed while he’s out getting brunch with the rest of Team Russia the next day.

He tends to track his competitors on social media only when they gain a certain presence in the figure skating world. This season had given him two new people to follow: Otabek Altin and Phichit Chulanont. The former seems to have Facebook and Twitter accounts managed by his PR team and his Instagram looks barely used, with the exception of some landscape photos of Almaty and close-up shots of his family’s home cooking. On the other hand, the latter posts multiple times a day across several popular social media sites—even some he’s never heard of; what on earth is LINE?—though he seems to have a bias for the Instagram.

He admits: he’s a little surprised when Yuuri appears in Phichit’s selfie-dominated account. _Is this what he used to be like?_ Viktor wonders to himself. He lets his eyes trace Yuuri’s smile, drinking in the delicate curve being drawn towards crescent-moon eyes like the tide. He’s been skating competitively for a little over a decade and the glitter in those warm brown eyes had been something Viktor only saw in bursts: happiness, unrestrained like crashing waves. His thumb quickly swipes up and the rest of Phichit’s posts blend together in gale of pictures and hashtags as Viktor goes further and further into the past—two days ago, one week ago, three months ago, one year ago. He stops when he catches a glimpse of pale skin and dark hair. There’s Yuuri again with the same smile, the same fluid limbs, and the same light in his eyes that continues to pull Viktor in, water lapping against rocky shore in an attempt to grasp the moon.

His fingers twitch instinctively. Viktor has grasped onto Yuuri plenty of times during the past two nights: caressed the flesh of his desire, held onto the supple thighs as he watched his student mimic his ministrations with amateur strokes, listened to him cry out when more experienced fingers plunged deep into him. Viktor already has that. He has the Yuuri that’s an ember: the dying bits of the passion he had seen onstage, with the potential to unleash another blaze if only stoked properly. He also has the Yuuri he’d scarcely seen on the ice: full of cracks and cold towards himself, always trapped beneath the frozen surface of his own anxiety and never breaking through to see the warmth of his achievements.

Viktor wants the Yuuri on his phone screen, too: unbidden, uninhibited by self-doubt, full of light. The Yuuri, he believes, that existed before all the others: mesmerizing, panegyrical, raw. He had seen a glint of it two nights ago at the banquet. He had danced with it one year ago in Sochi.

“Feltsman! Ciao Ciao!”

Viktor looks up from his phone—all his rinkmates had done the same. They saw Celestino Cialdini waving to them.

“Cialdini,” Yakov greets with a nod of the head. “Where’s your boy?” 

“My—?” Celestino turns around and calls behind him, “Phichit! I told you to stop it with the birds!”

“Aw, but they’re so cute!” Phichit playfully whines from a short distance. The flock of pigeons regroups about two feet away, toddling awkwardly. Viktor instead focuses on the mop of dark hair and pale skin next to him; he sees Yuuri’s lips move: _I told you you’d get in trouble_.

At the sight of the other skaters, Phichit beams and drags them over. Yuuri squeaks (to which his mind unhelpfully remembers the _“Ah, ah, ah, Viktor—!”_ from last night) and hisses something quietly to his best friend, who only wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. Yuuri looks ready to crumple into himself by the time Phichit reaches their table at the outdoor restaurant and says, “Good morning, everyone! Excited for the gala tonight?”

“You bet!” Mila says, launching her and Phichit into an animated discussion about the event. It’s a shame that Georgi’s the only one out of his rinkmates that won’t be participating, having been bumped out of the competition in China. But considering what his theme for the season was and his interesting choice of costume, perhaps that’s a blessing that he didn’t plan for a gala program.

“Mind if we join your group, Feltsman?” Celestino asks, already pulling three chairs over from an empty table. Yakov grunts in acquiescence nonetheless. Yuri’s eyes are locked onto Yuuri, trying to stare him down into an early grave. Yuuri is politely not making any eye contact with anyone, gaze shifted onto his lap.

No one else seems to realize his presence until Georgi pipes up. “Aren’t you from the banquet? The violinist for Viktor’s short program song?”

Yuuri’s head jerks up and, suddenly, all eyes rested on him. “Uh. Yes.”

Phichit is none the wiser about the atmosphere—or if he is, he’s expertly ignoring it. “This is my best friend, Yuuri Katsuki! He was really good on stage, wasn’t he?”

“He’s slick, that’s for sure,” Mila says, wiggling her eyebrows. She and Phichit will _definitely_ get along. Yuuri’s face goes from discomfort to someone-please-kill-me. Celestino finally notices that his former charge is practically turning paper-white from all the attention and intervenes.

“Yuuri,” he says, fishing out his wallet and taking out his credit card. Phichit’s mouth forms a tiny circle of amazement. “You and Phichit haven’t eaten yet. Why don’t you two go in and order something? My treat.”

“Oh, um, thank you.” Yuuri takes the card with a two-handed Japanese reverence and stands from his chair. “Do you want anything, Mr. Celestino?”

“Just a coffee will be fine.”

“Man, when was this when we went to that fancy steakhouse in Detroit?” Phichit asks, going on his toes to sling an arm around Yuuri’s shoulders; a light giggle bubbles up from his lips. “Hey, hey, anyone else want anything? We need to milk this for what it’s worth!” Mila, Georgi, and Viktor begin to rattle off names of desserts with a raucous laughter that overtakes Yakov’s exasperated sigh. Skaters. (Celestino, though surprised at Phichit’s declaration, isn’t worried: the boy knows better than to spend money that wasn’t his without permission.) Yuuri rolls his eyes and drags his best friend into the restaurant.

The laughter wanes into reedy breaths, trying to regain composure.

“That Katsuki boy raised a hell of a storm last year,” Yakov declares once the air has settled into street silence. Yuri, who had been glaring daggers at the door Yuuri and Phichit disappeared into, snaps his eyes back to attention. The other Russian skaters also listen in. They all know about Yakov’s disapproval of Katsuki’s shameless display during the GPF banquet in Sochi. But only Viktor knows—at least, now he knows—that Yakov is talking about something else entirely.

“It was mostly in Japan,” Celestino says. “He didn’t have that much of an international presence to begin with, so the overseas media didn’t shine the limelight on it too much.”

Sustaining a career-killing injury has always been one of Viktor’s nightmares. Every so often, he would entertain the morbid scenarios: which limbs would twist or break or fracture; how he would fall and skid across the ice; how the biting cold would seep into his skin, into his bones, into his heart until he was completely frozen over and useless; how he would face the disappointment of a nation who had placed their faith and hopes with him; how he would hear the pitiful sighs of his family because _poor, darling Vitya, everything you’ve worked hard for, just like that_.

Viktor’s nightmare had been Yuuri’s reality.

(He recalls the abyss within those brown eyes, the transition into inky endlessness like the uncharted depths. Viktor imagines those eyes pressed against the ice—its biting cold seeping into his skin, into his bones, into his heart until there is nothing else but the burden of failure.

It’s more than likely that the reality had been much, much worse.)

“He’s coping well, then?” The subtle notes of concern are there, hidden beneath Yakov’s grit and gravel. Maybe he had seen the potential of Yuuri’s artistry when he had still been a skater. Maybe it’s sympathy, from one coach to another. Or maybe it’s because when he looks at Yuuri, he sees hints of Viktor: his only son in everything but birth, whose life would drown without the weight of the ice beneath his feet.

“To be honest, two nights ago was the first time I’d seen him since he graduated from university,” Celestino answers truthfully. His brows dip at the outer corners—he really regrets not being able to do more for Yuuri, after all the pride the boy had given him as a Coach. “But from what his mother says when I call in, he’s been doing alright. The physical therapy did its job and he’s been trying to work through his anxiety.”  

Viktor hears an incredulous murmur in Russian: _He’s hurt?_

When he sneaks a sideways glance, Yuri looks like his cat had just died.

“We’re back!” Phichit’s voice rings bright like the Barcelona sunshine. Yuuri is holding a tray with two lunches and four drinks while Phichit holds small, brown paper bags in each hand. “And with everyone’s requests!” They stride over to the table and begin to place the bags in front of each person. “So one macaron sampler for Mila, one slice of plum cake for Georgi, four pieces of _leche frita_ for Viktor, one _pastisset_ for Yuri Plisetsky, and coffee for Coach Feltsman and Coach Celestino!”

Celestino balks. “Don’t tell me you actually used my card for those.”

“Nope, just for lunch! Yuuri paid for everything else.”  

“Oh, how sweet!” Mila exclaims, while Yuuri timidly apologizes to Yakov for not knowing how he liked his coffee. Georgi sniffles into his arm, saying something akin to _Not even Anya did something like this for me!_ (Yikes—better keep a close watch on him; he just might get the wrong idea. The skating world doesn’t need another season of heartbreak or yearning or forbidden love or whatever dramatics mill around in Georgi’s head.)

Even Yuri is at a loss, the crest of his stare weakened into a trough as he carefully eyes Yuuri with a strange skepticism. He opens the brown bag and looks at his _pastisset_ , jam and warmth and Yuuri’s consideration leaking out slightly from the dough, before mumbling, “Thanks, I guess.”

It throws everyone for a loop.  

“What’s this? Our little Yura, showing gratitude?” Viktor asks—because he’s genuinely curious how Yuri’s axis could shift so considerably within the span of a few minutes.

“Shut up, old man,” Yuri says with a snarl, grabbing the pastry and taking a savage bite. He stands abruptly and adds, “Katsuki’s a pathetic crybaby and his technique was shit, but he’s way nicer than you!” before storming off.

Yakov sighs and also gets up from his chair. “That boy. Come, you lot. Before his fans catch up to him.”  

Mila and Georgi scramble to get their spoils back into the paper bags and bid their farewells before sprinting to catch up to their rink’s angel-faced menace. Yakov is not as fast or agile as he used to be fifty years ago, but he follows after them at a steady pace nonetheless. When Viktor is the only one left not chasing after the sandstorm that is Yuri Plisetsky, he uses the opportunity to take Yuuri’s hand in his own.

“Will I be seeing you at the gala tonight?”

“I, um,” Yuuri stops himself before his voice can crack and swallows the thoughts of Viktor’s hand over his own, guiding him lower, lower, lower until he reaches hardness and heat and—nope, not with Phichit and Celestino still here! “I didn’t get a chance to get a ticket, so…”

“Oh, don’t you worry about that!” Phichit says. He winks. “I got you covered, bestie. He’ll be there!”

“What—”

“I’ll see you there, then!”

Viktor’s smile is soft, almost heart-shaped: just like the ones Yuuri’s seen behind the doors of his hotel room. Never like the ones he had grown up with in magazines, online articles, television press conferences. He thought he already knew the man named Viktor Nikiforov, having shadowed his life for more than a decade—but their encounter in Barcelona opened Yuuri’s eyes to a man beyond the frost of the rink. He barely catches it when he says, “Oh, and Yuuri?”

Viktor presses his lips against the back of Yuuri’s hand: loving, obeisant, completely undone by the magnetism of his moon. They both hear the sound of a shutter going off, but they’re too stuck within each other’s gravity to care. “When you’re watching the gala tonight, I just have one request.”

 _I want to show you what I see_ , he remembers saying. The smile of the fatale spills onto Viktor’s face. It’s time to show Yuuri what drew him in.

“Don’t take your eyes of me.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come on, I live for Phichit and Celestino being supportive. I also live for Team Russia interactions. (Also can you tell that I've been trying to work my way around writing actual smut. It's part of the reason why this took so long in the first place lol.)
> 
> This chapter was 3k words already, but I promise that the next part WILL be the last!! I will try to do my best to work on it and release it in a more timely fashion. It's 2AM, but I'll at least get a bit of a start on the final chapter, so I can get my bearings with it when morning comes. 
> 
> Again, thank you all so much for your patience.


End file.
